Run To Rome

Trent grimaced even though she had a damn good point. Still, he couldn’t help thinking with his stomach instead of his head. “Cops or Spaghetti O’s…man, that’s a tough call.”

“I can cook if I have ingredients.”

“Yeah?”

She lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “It’ll give me something to do.”

In the name of safety, he gave her the benefit of the doubt and kept an eye out for the first market he could find. Two detours later to avoid Carabinieri checkpoints, he spotted a market not far from Bellagio and pulled over.

Proving true the statement that she was the complete opposite of women he was used to, Halli took twice as long picking out food compared to clothes. After she returned with the sack of groceries, he drove the last few kilometers to George’s place where the boat was docked.

“What are you going to do about Giovanni’s car?”

Trent recalled the shattered left hand mirror—he hadn’t had much luck with mirrors the past two days— and blown out back window and shrugged. “Buy him a new one.”

Surprise lifted her eyebrows. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He parked out of sight of the road behind a small shed then looked over at her raised eyebrows. “What? You want to clean up all that blood?”

“I can.”

Trent shook his head on his way around to her side of the car, Lorenzo’s gun tucked neatly into the back waistband of his jeans and covered by his untucked shirt.

Halli closed her door, ever-present camera in hand. “After we get Ben—”

“You’re going home, remember? Don’t worry about the car, Halli, I’ll take care of it.” After a moment of enjoyable distraction while she retrieved the bags from the back seat, he took the overloaded grocery bag from her arms.

“Must be nice to have that kind of money.”

He gave a short laugh as she preceded him along the path to the dock, carrying her small handful of other bags.

“It has its advantages.” Some days more than others.

She stopped suddenly. Busy doing a quick check of their surrounding area, Trent almost ran her over when she turned to face him.

“That sounded bad—like I’m envious or something.”

“You mean you’re not?”

He meant it as a joke, but she immediately replied, “God, no.”

He lifted his brows, mimicking her earlier expression. She whirled and quickly started walking again. “What I meant was, I wouldn’t want your problems.”

“Huh,” he mused. His problems included her. Trent swept his gaze down the length of her back, taking in the fitted navy T-shirt and low-rise jeans she’d borrowed from Simone. “And your life is so perfect.”

Over her shoulder, he received a roll of her eyes, softened by a small smile. “Obviously not. But do you think Lapaglia would’ve asked for the money if you weren’t who you are?”

“Probably not.” He stepped past her onto the dock and leapt down into the boat.

“That’s all I’m saying,” she explained as he grasped her hand to help her aboard. “And more for myself than anything. It’s a reminder that, sure, the money’s probably nice, but it’s not everything. Most times it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

Her unexpected bitter statement at the end spoke of hard-earned experience. The vessel swayed gently beneath their feet, and while he would’ve liked a chance to study her expression, she pulled free as if she didn’t want to touch him. Then she set the camera atop the groceries in his arms, took the bag, and went straight below deck.

Trent retrieved the SD card from where he’d stashed it in a waterproof compartment under the the captain’s cushion and joined her. There may be some way to dig deeper into her last words while he figured out how to make a backup copy of the video for insurance. He wouldn’t risk Halli or Ben by using it if the exchange went well, but if something went wrong…well, better to be prepared.

After she put the antibiotics bottle from Simone in the refrigerator, the small galley table became her workstation to unload the camera, Roma tomatoes, a long loaf of French bread, pasta, parsley, basil, garlic, fresh mozzarella, parmesan, and one onion. He palmed the camera as he slid along the booth-style bench and propped his feet up on the seat cushion.

The answer was obvious, but he asked anyway. “Whatcha makin’?”